


how we're just two men as God had made us

by smallredboy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Religious Discussion, Sharing a Bed, discussion of consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24067183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Will tries to have sex with Hannibal while drunk on whiskey. Hannibal refuses, and it causes them to discuss their relationship, religion, and Will's underlying issues.(Or, a measured response to the whiskey ankles line.)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 178





	how we're just two men as God had made us

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is basically just me getting my thoughts down on the page about that one thing bryan fuller said ("and if you're bisexual you may wonder, how much whiskey until will graham's ankles are up in the air?"). as a bisexual man i found it a bit tasteless, with the implication that will would only be comfortable having sex with a man while drunk. so i wrote a fic about how hannibal has morals, sometimes, about specific things.
> 
> this isn't meant to be preachy but at the same time it is and i apologize. i just think hannibal isn't a terrible person one-hundred percent of the time and the whiskey ankles phenomena (especially with the fandom running with it) gave me a few ideas.
> 
> title from my chemical romance's _you know what they do to guys like us in prison_.
> 
> enjoy!

Will wants to be with Hannibal. Really, he does.

He's fantasized about it in length, for hours on end, getting relief at the mere thought. But the mere thought of _actually_ sleeping with Hannibal makes him an anxious wreck, his skin going clammy with nerves. He doesn't want to mess things up, even though he knows Hannibal is in love with him. Even though they're stuck in this little cabin in the middle of nowhere. Even though this is the best opportunity to get what he wants than ever before.

He manages to get some cheap whiskey from a shop, stealing it quietly, and he doesn't take long to take shots of it one night. He's exhausted and maybe he'll be less _like this_ if he's drunk. And it's not like Hannibal's moral compass exists for the most part, so it's not like he'll refuse to sleep with him when he's drunk. It'll be fine. It'll all be just fine.

He settles on the couch next to Hannibal and puts a hand against his cheek. It's not the first time they've kissed, chaste kisses shared over dinner and when at the farmer's market. But it still is a bit more heated, lust draped over Hannibal's teeth, hungry for something or other, hungry for touch.

"Will," Hannibal mumbles, pulling him away gently.

"Hannibal," he hiccups in response, giving him doe eyes. "I want you."

"I know," he says.

He grunts and settles on Hannibal's lap, not doing anything, simply sitting there, getting comfortable. "Come on. You know what I want. Give it to me. I gave you murder, you can give me sex. It's a fair trade."

"Not when you're like this," Hannibal says, wiping his thumb over Will's bottom lip. "You're drunk, Will."

"Aw, c'mon!" he exclaims, grabbing his shoulders. "You framed me for murder and tried to eat my brain but you're above _drunk sex_?" he presses.

Hannibal shakes his head and picks him up with relative ease, taking him to bed as he carries him bridal style. "I will not take advantage of the love of my life while he's drunk," he says.

"You're a pussy," he replies, shaking his head, before it gets to his inebriated brain. "What did you just call me?"

Hannibal freezes for a second, his face flushing pink before he settles Will down into bed. "The love of my life," he says quietly, like he might disappear if he says it too loud.

"Oh," he says. He hiccups and pulls him down into a kiss, hands on both his cheeks, keeping him close to him. "I love you, Hannibal."

"I know," he replies, a hand leaning up to scratch at his scalp, a lovestruck look in his eyes. Will hopes that he remembers this in the morning, just so he can tease Hannibal about it. "I love you too. And our first time will be with you completely sober, okay?"

Will huffs. "O _kay_. Are you going to play psychiatrist when I wake up, too?"

"Kind of what I have to do, Will," Hannibal says, the pads of his fingers against his scalp, massaging it ever so slowly, trying to relax him into sleep. "You are only accessing sex with me while drunk for a reason. You are… repressed, is the word most people use."

"I'm fine with my sexuality being repressed," Will says sleepily.

"You shouldn't be," he replies. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Just sleep for now, okay?"

He groans softly. "Night. You're still a pussy."

"Of course," he agrees without batting an eye, looking at him lovingly as he drifts off into sleep.

* * *

When Will wakes up, there is two Aspirin and a glass of water on the nightstand. He groans as he straightens up to take them — his head is already thrumming with pain, but it'll go away soon enough. After a few minutes of staying there, thinking about what had happened the night before, Hannibal walks into his room.

"How are you feeling?"

"Okayish," he replies. "My head hurts. But I took the Aspirin, so it'll be gone soon."

"Of course. That's all the Aspirin you're getting — you took far too many back when we were in Quantico."

"When I had encephalitis?" he says dryly, fiddling with the bedsheets.

Hannibal frowns just a modicum. "Yes." There is a pause. "Would you like to talk about what happened last night?"

He hums. "In a bit. I'm going to, uh, shower, and get dressed, and then you can play psychiatrist."

"I'm not _playing_ psychiatrist. I have a degree."

"They took your license away," Will replies, tilting his head at him, eyes gleaming with playfulness.

Hannibal chuckles. "That they did. But that doesn't mean I don't have the knowledge still." He leans in to press a kiss to Will's forehead. "Just come to the living room when you're ready."

"Of course."

He spends far too long there, in his bed, thinking about it. About his disgust with himself, since he was very young — Baptist churches and preachers, talking about sin in unhelpfully vague terms; talk about sodomy at the church he grew up in, talk about how it was coming for them during the AIDS crisis. He stayed in the margins back then, but he knew he was part of that group. Men into other men. He just never acted on it, from a fear deep inside him. He's not sure of what — of going to Hell? Well, he's made sure he has a place there now. He shouldn't have anything to fear now, on the run with a cannibalistic serial killer, but he is still afraid and disgusted. Like his skin is off by a few inches, uncomfortable in all the wrong places.

When he married Molly, he was unsure if he was trying to escape from Hannibal. He was unsure if he was trying to escape his desire for men (because Hannibal was the first man he _really_ felt something for, strong and burning him up inside out) or his desire for Hannibal specifically, with all his sins and all his evil.

He wants to be comfortable in his own skin. But existence has felt like an ill-fitting suit, for as long as he can remember. The _why_ has just changed over the years, and now it sits on having sex with men, with a man, with Hannibal, that is what is nagging at him.

He draws in a shaky breath and rubs his hands against his face before getting up and heading to take a shower. He stays under the water for too long, the steamed up mirror not letting him see himself. He prefers it that way. He goes to dry himself and put clothes on — white t-shirt, boxers, and pants. He's used to just boxers, but he wants an extra layer between him and Hannibal. Before he can debate with himself about it, he also grabs a jacket.

Hidden. He prefers himself that way.

He walks to the living room and settles on the sofa, keeping a respectable distance between them.

"Extra layers, Will?" Hannibal starts.

Will huffs. "Yes."

There's a pause that lingers on forever. 

"Why do you hide yourself from me when you're sober?"

"Because —" He sighs. "I was… raised in the South. My father was Baptist. I went to — to church a lot. You can guess what kind of messages got into my head with that."

"We cannot hold onto the values taught during our childhood forever," Hannibal replies. "You have to let go of what you have been taught as wrong. You already have. You have killed, Will. With me and without me. You broke a Commandment far more important than _man shall not lie with another man_."

Will knows Hannibal is right from a rational, logical point of view. He knows that if he removes himself from his own feelings, this whole debate with himself is ridiculous. You have killed. You've already secured your place far, far away from the Kingdom of God, why are you worried about this? Why don't you just have sex with Hannibal while not awfully drunk?

But he can't. He just can't.

"You're right," Will says, picking his words carefully. "Your logical rationale doesn't stop my feelings, though."

"It often does not."

Will picks at a loose thread on his pants. "Why didn't you just sleep with me?" he asks.

Hannibal has disgust flood into his factions, for a second. "I will not sleep with you when your consent is compromised, Will," he says, as serious as ever. Will looks up at him and holds his gaze. "You were inebriated. You weren't thinking straight. And now that you _are_ thinking straight, you put on extra layers just for me not to see you. You wouldn't have agreed to it while sober."

"Is that your only moral law?" Will says, trying and failing not to sound bitter as he looks back down, "thou shalt not rape, but thou can do fuck-all else?"

"I find sexual assault one of the most discourteous things to do," Hannibal replies, although there's a smile curling into his lips. "Rudeness is embedded in the people who do things such as it. That is why I took the blame for Mason Verger's death."

"I'd say trying to eat the _love of your life_ 's brain is also kind of rude."

"It is," Hannibal agrees. 

"Better eat yourself, then."

There's a long pause.

"You are deflecting, Will," he says. "I am not rushing you — I am not simply searching for my own pleasure when I tell you that you need to be comfortable with yourself, with all of you. You have embraced your becoming in this way, but you are forty years old and you have not come to terms with your sexual desires yet."

"We both lived through the AIDS crisis when we were young, Hannibal," Will says. "You must've gotten stuck with _something_ as well. Or not, perhaps. You are not familiar with shame."

"I'm not," he agrees. "I have never been ashamed of who I am. I have just hid it when I have deemed it necessary. Other times I have… flaunted it, you may say, to elicit a response from people. Some people can be quite rude to those comfortable in their own skin."

Will huffs. "Of course. I'm sure everyone clocked you as being into men, back in Baltimore. With all those flashy suits."

"Perhaps they did," Hannibal says. "But matter of fact is, I will wait for you, Will." He swallows. "Could you look at me? Only if you are comfortable."

The show of asking for his comfort leaves a funny feeling in his stomach, all over the place. Like butterflies, maybe. He looks at Hannibal, looks at him in the eye.

"Can I touch you?"

"Yes," he says.

Hannibal's hands raise, and he cups both of his cheeks, looks at him, looks through him. Like a sculpture, like a piece of art. He feels so very loved, loved without questions and without answers. Without need for them.

"I love you, Will. I will love you for the rest of time, no matter whether you allow me in to have sex with you or not. I care about you so very much — about your consent and about your health. I will not take advantage of you when you are drunk, and I will not allow you to harm yourself by trying to. This is the bare minimum of love you deserve, and I am going to give you every last bit of it, and so much more."

Will doesn't notice them at first, but he's crying. Fat tears run down his cheeks as Hannibal says how he loves him, how he cares for him, and how he will never put him in harm's away. Not again, at least — not again. He won't do it again, after so many times of hurting him. Now that they _see_ each other, there is no need for harm or for hurt.

"I love you too," he says. "I love you so much. Thank you." He swallows. "I will… I will take my time. I will try to get comfortable in my own skin."

"You don't have to rush yourself," he says. "Take your time. I am here to talk if you need it. Even if I do not… share your experiences, I can still understand. I can still help you. And even if I can't empathize with it, I can try to put a logical lens through it."

"Of course." Will smiles and leans in to peck him on the lips. "Thank you, Hannibal." He swallows. "I'd like to… try to sleep in the same bed, maybe? We haven't done that yet, somehow. I don't think I will… freak out at it. I'm alright with kissing you. It's the — the next big step I am worried about."

Hannibal smiles, presses a kiss to the corner of his lips. "Of course, Will. Anything you want. We'll sleep in the same bed tonight."

What he learns from that night is that Hannibal's pajamas _feel_ expensive — that Hannibal tends to be cold, that touching his leg during the night makes him hiss from it — that Hannibal, while asleep, looks for touch like it would kill him to not have it; that he wraps his arms around his frame while snoring softly, so much peace in his face; that he buries his face on the crook of his neck like he belongs on it.

Will loves Hannibal. He just has to take his time to take the next step.

But for the time being, he's happy holding him in his arms, trying to stave off sleep to savor this moment.

(When he falls asleep, there are no nightmares and there are no deer.)


End file.
